


On the subject of pig ears, selective deafness and milk

by WritingQuill



Series: (30) Days of Johnlock [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Angry John, Angst, Apologetic Sherlock, Established Relationship, Fluff, Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, Sherlock hates Tesco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:36:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Day eight: shopping </p><p>When John finds the fridge full of gruesome things once again, it's breaking point and he leaves the flat in anger. An apologetic Sherlock goes out of his way to prove to his beloved army doctor that he cares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the subject of pig ears, selective deafness and milk

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it took so long for this, guys! I was idle today, then I went to the cinema (by the way, Good Vibrations: highly recommended)  
> Anyway, this is just a bit of fluff for you, rated for the language.

‘… there’s just no talking to you, is there? It’s like you have selective deafness or something! Dammit, Sherlock, just once I asked you to do one thing for, just one thing and instead of going to the bloody shop to buy the fucking milk, you came back with a shitload of sodding pig ears and cow’s stomachs!’ John complained after he opened the fridge to find that, once again, Sherlock had replaced all the food for a human head (eyeless, which made it somehow even more disturbing), a basket of pig years and three cows stomachs in different stages of gruesome decomposition. That had been the cherry on top of the worst week of his life, what with Sherlock working three cases and almost ignoring John, except to tell him to run errands, than there had been the worst case of flu-meets-chicken-pox ever at the surgery, which meant he had to do overtime running on little sleep, and he also had had to go rescue Harry again in one of her drunken escapades. By Friday afternoon, all John had wanted was a nice, warm cup of tea with just a dash of milk and a chocolate biscuit. That’s all he wanted. And that’s all he asked Sherlock to get when he left for the shops in the morning. But, no, no. When he got home, his fridge had become a bloody morgue and he had reached the apex of his patience. ‘I just can’t deal with you anymore,’ he said, and Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

‘What?’ 

‘I’m going. I can’t be… here anymore. I’ll go and take a walk or something…’ John said, quietly, inhaling very slowly, very deliberately, trying to calm down. But he could feel his veins hot with angry blood. If he didn’t leave right that instead, John was afraid of what he might do. ‘I’ll be back later, don’t wait up.’ That was beyond wishful thinking, Sherlock waiting up for anyone, let alone John who was more of a man servant than a boyfriend. He took his coat from the hanger and left without looking back. 

Sherlock stood in the middle of the sitting room, staring at the closed door. His brain had gone blank. Had John really asked him to get the milk? He didn’t remember that… Oh, wait… 

John had been late in the morning. Sherlock remembered now. He had kissed Sherlock’s hair. He had said “I’m going to be late, love, so can you buy the milk and maybe some biscuits?”. Sherlock had nodded. 

Oh, no. 

John never asked for favours, and the only time he did, Sherlock failed him. And now John had left, and Sherlock didn’t know what to do. He looked at the fridge, which had been left opened after John slammed the door in sheer anger. He saw the head and the basket and the stomachs. No milk, no biscuits, no eggs, nothing edible, really. Not even remains of take-away. Oh, no. No, no, no. That was all kinds of Not Good. John was angry, really angry now, furious, even. All Sherlock’s fault. He had to do something. Something. But what? How could he possibly fix this? John would not take his usual apologies, clearly. No kisses or hugs or whispers of sorry-s and I’m-an-idiot-s would right this wrong. 

However… there _was_ something. 

In two seconds, Sherlock was in his coat and scarf, and out the door, heading off to the shops. 

*

As soon as he walked into the Tesco Express, Sherlock remembered why he never went to Tesco Express. It was loud and smelly, and there was sensory overload in his brain, which he just _could not shut off_. Sherlock breathed in and out, steadied himself and picked up a basket, the set off through the aisles to get the milk and the biscuits John liked (lately, John had developed a preference of Quirks over HobNobs, which was good because that left all the HobNobs to Sherlock to enjoy). 

He picked up the pint of semi-skimmed milk and nodded to himself. Yes, that was the one John liked. He always went one and on about how whole milk was too heavy and how skimmed milk tasted like water. Sherlock didn’t care one way or another, as long he had milk in his tea. 

There were three women with prams and loud children, and Sherlock almost yelled at them because, really, is a mini market an appropriate place to take children? They were slimy and snotty and loud. They cried all the time, and for some reason they hated Sherlock. Might as well, because Sherlock hated them right back. He snarled when a ratty two-year-old ginger boy stuck his tongue out at him, then decided to go to the biscuit aisle through the long way. 

God, he hated Tesco Express. 

Having all his groceries picked out (semi-skimmed milk, HobNobs, Quirks, a loaf of that Danish bread John liked, sugar, some cheese and _prosciutto_ , which John sometimes indulged in), Sherlock made his way to the tills, deciding to go for the non-automatic ones. Quicker. 

After the most irritating half hour of his life, Sherlock managed to leave Tesco in one piece and go back to Baker St. 

*

Standing in the middle of the kitchen, having placed the Tesco bag on the kitchen counter, Sherlock made a decision. 

John Watson was more important than the Work. 

Of course, the idea had already been floating around in his Mind Palace for a while, but now it was concrete, because he had decided to organise the kitchen in order to appease John and restore the balance in their household. He wanted John to trust him with the little things, just like he did his life, and the only way to do that was to compromise. It had taken longer than recommended, surely, but Sherlock had finally reached the point. John over Work. It felt… refreshing, somehow. 

So, he asked Mrs Hudson to use that big freezer she had in the cellar, which had been abandoned after she had stopped baking pies for sale, and then moved all of the cold experiments there. It took over an hour to get it all done, but the end result was an empty yet dirty fridge in need of some deep cleaning. 

Sherlock sighed. ‘John, what wouldn’t I do for you…’ Then, for the first time ever, Sherlock Holmes actually cleaned. 

* 

It was already one in the morning when John got back to Baker Street. He had been to the park for a walk, to the pub for a drink, and to the park again for a sobering walk. The anger had dissipated, leaving only a tinge of disappointment at Sherlock and himself, for allowing himself to be bossed around by Sherlock to the point where he didn’t even have a voice anymore. 

Thing was, he loved Sherlock so much. He loved Sherlock’s skin, his lips, his mind, his hair, his dark humour, his boyish giggle. There was not one inch of Sherlock John didn’t adore, and maybe that was the problem. Maybe he allowed Sherlock to take advantage of his goodwill unwittingly. 

John opened the door only to find that Sherlock was still up. The lights were all on, and the man himself was covered by the fridge door. John shuddered when he saw it, memories of the eyeless severed head still in his brain. 

‘Sherlock?’ 

A curly haired head popped out and those beautiful eyes widened as they saw John. 

‘John! You’re back!’ John could tell Sherlock sounded deeply relieved, and he would be lying if he said that didn’t make him feel a bit better. 

‘Well, yes, I live here.’ 

Sherlock stepped out of the fridge and closed the door. He smiled. ‘Indeed, you do.’ He walked towards John and took his hand. ‘I am… sorry, John, for not respecting you. While you were gone, I did a lot of thinking and realised that I have been unfair to you and your needs in the past, and that for this relationship and companionship to work in the future, I will have to compromise more.’ 

John felt his eyebrows shoot up. Was Sherlock really saying those things? That was… 

Then he looked around the kitchen and saw that the kitchen table had been cleared and the kitchen itself was spotless. John looked back at Sherlock’s face with a frown. 

‘What happened here?’ 

‘Well, I cleared up the kitchen and moved my experiments to the bedroom upstairs, since you’re hardly ever using it anyway. So I put your things in my… our room. I also moved the head, pig ears and cow stomachs, along with the rest of the experiments in the fridge to the freezer in the cellar. Now you have a clean kitchen, free of disgusting things, and you can eat in peace,’ Sherlock explained, sounding almost shy, avoiding looking into John’s eyes. ‘I also, hm, went to the shops and bought milk and some other things to put in the fridge. It’s mostly empty, though, so you might want to—‘ 

He was interrupted by John’s lips clashing with his. John grabbed a fistful of silky dark curls and hummed into Sherlock’s mouth, feeling his heart flutter and his insides warm with happiness. 

They kissed and kissed for a long time, John with his arms around Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock holding tightly onto John’s waist. After a few minutes they broke apart, and Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s, both men breathing heavily, breaths mingling together. 

‘John, I love you… I don’t say it enough, and you deserve so much more. I… I’m lucky to have you, and you are more important to me than the Work. Please, John, don’t leave…’ 

John smiled and chuckled, placing a kiss on the tip of Sherlock’s nose. ‘I won’t. I wasn’t planning to, either. But it’s nice to know that you care. Sorry for being such a drama queen, though, and throwing all of my frustration at you. I’ve just had such a horrible week, and… I dunno, it’s nice to feel like I matter.’ 

With a gasp, Sherlock held John’s face between his hands and looked him straight in the eye. ‘You do matter, John. You are the most important thing in the world. I don’t know how to express these feelings, but I feel them.’ 

John smiled wider. ‘That’s all that matters, then.’ 

With that, they kissed again. 

And even more after John found his Quirks.


End file.
